


Dragon Age: Conversations

by Afrokot



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Crack, F/F, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, Other, Romance, trollface!Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 6,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afrokot/pseuds/Afrokot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of unrelated drabbles and shot stories with characters from DA universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sense of Humour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [female Surana & Alistair]

"I like to make deals with demons. They are so profitable if you know how to bargain properly. It's always fun! One of them taught me blood magic, and now I can boil your blood within your veins! Isn't it cool? Oh, and every third month I go on a night of rampage killing spree, viciously murdering all that can be killed, cackling and howling at the moon all the while. So you know, I thought I'd mention it in advance. If our journey lasts that long, then you should be prepared," concluded his sister-in-arms smiling like an elven angel. If elves ever had angels, that's it.

There was undeniably deranged glint in her eyes, but Alistair chose to dismiss it as a trick of light.

"Maker! And I didn't believe Knight-Commander when he told me all mages are insane. You are joking, right?" He was whiter than snow and definitely not happy he brought up the subject of personal interests, his attempt to 'get to know each other better' be damned. In fact, at that moment he deeply regretted he'd survived Ostagar at all.

"Of course, I am joking, silly!" Her lips formed a disarming smile. "Now, could you please fetch some wood for campfire?"

Surana looked so innocent, Alistair couldn't imagine her capable of hurting any sentient being. Well, obviously darkspawn didn't fall into that category.

"Ha, you had me going there for a minute!" With an awkward chuckle, he stood up. "Um. Sure thing, I will be right back!"   
  
Alistair harried away, silently repeating the Canticle of Transfigurations and thinking about 'crazy mages and their sense of humour.' It was the last lucid thought in his life because a second later Mind Control spell completely erased his will.


	2. The Greatest Threat to Mankind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Anders & Justice]

_"No! Stand still!"_   

A low growl escaped his throat, but none the less he obeyed. The hideous creature that stood in front of him glaring with vicious malice in its fluorescent eyes seemed to mock him. Oh, how he hated it! All his being was consumed with rage, hatred, and the want to kill. Rip apart, shred to pieces, and annihilate the remains. The steady rhythm of _'destroy, slay, smite'_ echoed in his mind with each beat of his heart. Blood thundered in his ears, his line of sight had narrowed down to the beast. All muscles tightened, hackles stood on end... he was ready to leap. Just one move! It was all he needed, but strong hands held him back.

"No, Justice! Sit! It's a good kitty," Anders said in a soothing and slightly exasperated voice, tugging his mabari backwards by the collar. Not for the first time, he cursed the day when his friend's dog helped him by distracting the High Dragon while he concentrated too deeply on a rather sophisticated spell. The dog held on long enough for their party to finish off the monster, but not without consequences. The only way to save the hound's life after the rough blow it took was suggested by a spirit inhabiting Kristoff's body. So they agreed with Justice, and the spirit migrated into his new host, merged with its soul and healed its wounds. The Hero of Ferelden — the actual owner of the mabari — couldn't stand it, and Anders, led by gratefulness and guilt, volunteered to be its caretaker.  

It felt like the right decision to make at the time. Now he deemed 'foolish' and 'idiotic' as more accurate definitions. And here they were: an apostate mage with a glowing bright blue light dog Justice, who saw all felines as a threat to mankind. Poor kitten was so terrified, it almost looked like it was under a spell _(frozen or petrified, or even Mind Blasted, come to think of it…)_ — unblinking, unmoving, rooted to the spot and… Yes, not breathing either. To think, once upon a time Anders considered himself 'a cat person!' When did his life become so ludicrous?


	3. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [PC - Female Aeducan, rogue. Zevran & Sten]

"Assassin. I was not aware you still live. It is unexpected," Sten greeted him with his usual cheerfulness.

"What do you mean, my dear Sten?" Trying to force sleep out of his body, Zevran blinked. It was too early for anything other than rest. Well, rest or other morning activities, which also meant relaxation, but of a different kind...

"Kadan is experienced and skilled for someone not of my kin. She went into your tent late at night. I thought she would be successful, yet you are unharmed. I'm disappointed." In reality, he sounded indifferent. No surprise here. "She should have more practice."

Amused by the unintended double meaning, Zevran chuckled despite himself, the discussion of the qunari mating rituals still fresh in his mind.

"I am greatly sorry to be the cause of your discontent, my friend," he said, and he was, truly. Bringing a qunari's wrath on oneself generally was considered an inconvenience for oneself's health. "But you must forgive me for staying alive." Banishing unpleasant thoughts, he continued lightly, "Not wanting to die is only natural after all, yes?"

Sten's hard gaze was the only indication of his disapproval. "I hope she will succeed next time," he informed the assassin and marched off to the other side of their camp, presumably in search of the Warden.

"Experienced and skilled, sí," Zevran muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Next time? I have my doubts."

When he extended an invitation to the Warden to see his _other_ sword and got an excited acceptance, he believed they were 'on the same page,' as Fereldans say. No such luck. She came into his tent with a bloody arsenal worthy to equip a whole blasted dwarven army in tow! After four hours filled with passionate — if slightly one-sided, not that it wasn't interesting, but… — discussion of steel quality, best Thedas smiths, better suited for dagger and sword materials, and so on and so forth, Zevran started to question his seduction skills. He was getting desperate.


	4. Small Comfort (it's the effort that counts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Male Hawke & Anders]

Hawke slowly made his way to Darktown, taking his time to consider possible topic for the impending conversation. Ever since moving to Kirkwall, It's become a usual occurrence: every now and then he would feel The Urge _(yes, he named it The Urge, with two capitals)_ to speak with someone (often a random person he didn't know existed until that very moment), and it would lead to getting a job or solving another's problems. He imagined it as a torch lit inside his head that suddenly shows him with crustal clarity: he _must_ go seek a specific person. A map of town with dots and crosses indicating places and people would spread right in front of Hawke's mind-eye. At the beginning it was creepy _(he might or might not thought he finally had lost his touch with reality. And really, who wouldn't?)_ , but with time and increased income _(due to his inner problem-pointing compass),_ he started to trust this insistent urge and just went with the flow, so to speak. And now Hawke was walking to Anders, trying to decide why the healer might be in need of assistance. 

Narrowly avoiding indescribable puddles of grime and muck, he strolled up the short staircase. Only to trip over a large meowing monster, whom Anders mistakenly called a cat. Well, who said Hawke was opposed to dramatic entrances? But then again, tumbles through doorways combined with exclamations of curses that could make any drunken sailor blush rarely help with maintaining man's dignity…

Someone cleared his throat. Hawke straightened his clothes, took a deep, calming breath, and finally met the healer's gaze. Contrary to popular belief, Anders didn't always look troubled or sour. Not to say he was the ray of sunshine, either. He was often wary and a little too paranoid, constantly looking over his shoulder. _('Well'_ , mused Hawke, _'life on the run would do it even to the most rational person.'_ _)_ And here he was — staring with grim expression and hard eyes at his supposed friend. Definitely not a warm welcome. The hut (also known as the clinic) was empty save for Anders with his additional inhabitant Justice. No one was sitting on makeshift beds, moaning in pain or quietly complaining about their injures, waiting to be put out of their misery. How unusual. It was as if the healer's new attitude scared all his patients away. Something definitely wasn't right.  

Hawke coughed. "Hey, what's up?"

Anders didn't answer immediately. Instead, he averted his gaze, frowning at the wall. His features crumpled, and when Hawke, wide-eyed and slightly panicky, was sure the healer was going to start crying, he declared, "They don't like me! None of them!" 

Before Hawke had a chance to voice his confusion, Anders continued, "Isabela always mocks me —  _'Is Anders here?'_ " He said it in a high-pitched tone, apparently, employed to imitate the deep throaty purr of their companion. "Varric calls me names! _Blondie!_ Can you imagine?! I'm not some stupid wench with big breasts and no brains! And Fenris… Yesterday he said I'm… I'm…"  There was a honest to Maker anguish not only evident in his words, but projected through all his composure as well, lower lip trembling and all. "He said that I'm an ' _abomination!_ '" The mage sighed, looking like the unhappiest person in whole Thedas. "My life is awful," he concluded with an adorable pout.

For a long moment Hawke was rendered speechless. He knew, of course, about friendly banters between his companions, and even participated from time to time, but he was unaware that Anders took offence with harmless needling (and in Fenris's case the elf just stated the fact). Racking his brain for something reassuring, he was soon disappointed to find only his father's tales about dreadfully looking, disgusting creatures commonly known as possessed mages. Coincidentally, similar stories were widely used by Templars to terrify commoners with the danger of magic and sorcerers in general. The images stubbornly refused to leave his mind. And considering that technically Anders _was_ possessed… Well… He tried to sound comforting.

"Lighten up, at least you are —  _ahem_ — a cute abomination?.."


	5. My Friend, the Dominatrix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Male Hawke, Aveline/Donnic]

Hawke leant against the doorway to Aveline's office. He wasn't eavesdropping, of course not! It just so happened that the door was thin and didn't provide much privacy. Besides, at times Aveline could be louder than chantry bells. Well, the thing was, he was able to hear her clearly, but, much to his dismay, Guardsman Donnic decided to whisper. Hawke briefly considered the possibility of Donnic doing it on purpose — just to spite him — but dismissed it as unrealistic. Guardsman was too noble for such childish behaviour. Thus Hawke's current position. He wasn't curious, not at all! He was just… worried about his friend.

Inside the room Donnic mumbled something. Judging by Aveline's shrieking reply, it was something surprising and unpleasant. Hawke cringed. 

"She said what?!.. That bitch!.. And you thought that…?!.." Aveline obviously wasn't happy with Donnic's words. It made Hawke want to hit someone. No one can mess with his friends without suffering the consecutions! 

Outside the room her voice started to draw unwanted attention. Newly appointed Guardsmen were milling around without apparent reason, circling closer and closer to Hawke's post; their ears seemingly perked up. Hawke did the only reasonable thing: he scared them off with a fierce glare. It helped to ease his frustration somewhat.  

Donnic mumbled once more. A pause, and then Aveline laughed. Evidently, they were reaching an understanding. Silence and the sound of clicking armour, then —

"Well, thinking's not in your job description!" Aveline said flirtatiously.   
  
_'Yes! I knew it! She can flirt! Take that, Isabela!'_ Hawke made a victory dance, which he would vehemently deny later.   
  
"You should leave it to your superior officers."

Things quieted a bit. Hawke strained his ears, but for a long time he could hear only muffled laughter, mutterings, and grumbles. It was getting boring. He yawned.

"All right, it's settled then." Aveline again. And — would you believe it — she even sounded happy! Hawke's interest was definitely piqued once more.  

Donnic expressed something through hopeful-sounding mumbles. _Seriously, can't he speak comprehensibly? People are trying to listen here! He absolutely should go see Anders about that._

"You are dismissed, Guardsman Donnic. Return to your post," said Aveline, and despite the formality of her words, Hawke could tell she was satisfied with the outcome of their talk.

Not a minute later slightly ruffled and flustered Guardsman emerged from the office, and before Hawke had a chance to recommend him a good healer for his speech implementation problem, sprinted to his post without a glance in any other direction. _Ah, well._

Hawke walked through the door.

"So. How'd it go?" Of course, he couldn't _not_ ask her. It's _Hawke_ we're talking about!

Aveline's smile could lit the entire building. "We're dating now."

"Hmm… Congratulations!" Then, intrigued, he asked, "And whose advice did you follow?"

"My father's, actually," she said, looking undeniably smug. When Hawke silently raised an eyebrow, she explained. "He liked to say," she paused and lowered her voice to a growl, "' _show'em who has bigger balls, m'girl!'"_  

The unexpected reply startled him into a fit of giggles. Um, chuckles! Manly chuckles. Right.

"And now, if you will excuse me," Aveline continued when the moment was over, "I have a Guardswoman to reprimand for spreading disinformation and rumours about her Captain."

Going by the look in her eyes, Hawke didn't envy some poor jealous girl, who — unfortunately for her — was interested in Guardsman Donnic's affections.


	6. (I can see) The Family Resemblance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where Anders joined the Grey Wardens during the events of DA: Origins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Male Hawke, Meredith & Orsino, Anders; implied Anders/Morrigan]

When Hawke finally arrived at the Gallows, Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino were, as per usual, deeply involved in a conversation. Well, that is if you can call throwing loud accusations and refusing to listen to anyone but yourself conversing. Sighing, he muttered, _'Maker! Not again!..'_ under his breath. Watching them going on, and on, and on, for hours without saying anything new… For the last three years it went exactly like that _all the damn time_ he was unfortunate enough to be their referee. In theory, his title gave him enough political weight to influence the situation. In practice… 

At least, Orsino was making an effort. Hawke sighed again. It was a quiet, unhappy sound of a tired man. His friends and sister (seeing her was the brightest event of that day) were looking at him with various expressions — hope, expectation, and, in one particular case, aggressive desperation. Actually, the latter was quite worrisome. Anders might do something spectacularly moronic. 

Meanwhile, two mostly well-respected and definitely the most influential individuals in Kirkwall were getting ready to tear each other's throats out. It was time to intervene.

"The way you two carry on, people will talk,"he said in greeting. 

Judging by the outraged disgust and the grim determination written on their faces (Meredith's and Orsino's, respectively), his attempt to defuse the tension spectacularly failed. Or maybe they just didn't get the joke. It's always hard to say with those fanatical types. He shrugged. 

More shouting and even more posturing occurred. _Boring, boring, already heard this, and that too… Oh, that's new!_  Uh-oh, knowing Knight-Commander — and he knew her rather well — Hawke suspected that if her demands won't be met in the nearest future, The Right of Annulment might be invoked. Though to be fair, more likely than not, it would have been invoked anyway.

In an uncharacteristic show of thoughtfulness, First Enchanter Orsino, either reading Hawke's mind or thinking along the same lines, decided to seek help from the Chantry.

"This is getting us nowhere. Grand Cleric Elthina will put a stop to this."

"Yeah, good luck with that." Hawke's mutter was, of course, ignored. He wasn't expecting anything else, really.

"You will not bring her Grace into this!" Meredith preferred to act the exact opposite to anything suggested by a mage. What a refreshingly original notion!

From the corner of his eye Hawke spotted movement — Anders strode from the sidelines, intent, no doubt, on speaking his mind. But before the ex-warden could so much as open his mouth, everything went straight to hell. A great boom sounded from the distance, and not a moment later flames engulfed the Chantry (or what was left of it after the explosion, to be precise).

And when they looked at it, they saw the impossible (highly improbable, more like): astonishingly small purple High Dragon was flying in circles just above the site of destruction, and on its back sat a rider — Hawke squinted — wielding a staff. In a brief shocked silence that followed (everyone held their breath) they heard peals of a distinctly feminine laughter.

The dragon made one more round above the Chantry, wagged its tale, and headed toward the mountains, completely disappearing from sight in mere seconds. Just before the chaos erupted, Hawke heard Anders mumbling, _'That's not how it was supposed to happen.'_

Then, as if a spell was broken, people started to scream; Meredith and Orsino continued their shouting match; Sebastian burst into tears… Hawke looked at Anders.

The mage seemed apologetic and uncomfortable. "That's my wife… and our child," he explained quietly. "Um… Sorry I haven't introduce you earlier?" he smiled nervously. "It was good knowing you. I'd better be going now!" And Anders ran from the Gallows like a horde of darkspawn was after him.


	7. Crossbow Fetish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Varric & Isabela; implied Varric/Bianca, hinted at Isabela/Bianca and Hawke is somewhere offscreen]

As was usual for a Monday evening - or any evening of the week, really - Varric was at the centre of attention, telling one of his epic stories. "No shit, there I was fighting darkspawn in the Deep Roads…"  

All folks in the tavern were listening to an extent - some avidly, forgetting about their drinks, or to pay attention to their cards (which just made cheating them all the more satisfying, after all, fools deserve to be fooled); others heard every fifth word, though it usually didn't hinder their grasp of the plot; and some were just too drunk to hear anything beside their own snores, if that.

Smirking, Isabela sat next to him. The story had just reached its dramatic ending, and Varric brought his tankard to his lips. She caught his gaze.  
  
"Varric, you're incredibly adorable," she said, then paused for affect. "In a sexy way."

Varric lowered the tankard. "Why, thank you, Rivaini. I know I'm irresistible." Despite his words, he blushed, obviously pleased with the compliment.

Isabela smiled. "But I think you should allow yourself to relax more often… Spend time with _real…_ people, you know?" She made a special emphasis on 'real' and only stressed 'people' as if on afterthought.

Instead of replying, he decided to finally quenching his thirst. 

As soon as Varric started to swallow, she continued, "I mean, your relationship with your crossbow? Not healthy, even by my standards." Lowering her voice to a husky whisper, she murmured, "Oh, and while you're busy with an actual woman, why don't you let me take care of Bianca? I will be gentle, I promise."

Grinning, Isabela made her way back to the bar. As entertaining as watching the dwarf sputter was, she had winnings to collect.


	8. The Wisdom of Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Male Hawke/Fenris]

"You know, I'm considering pros and cons of smothering Meredith in her sleep," said Hawke one evening, sitting in front of the fireplace in his estate. "The more I think about it, the more appealing it seems."

"And may I ask, why do you want her dead?" Curious, Fenris turned to look at him.  

Hawke sighed. "She is standing in my way to becoming the Viscount. Once she's out of the equation and I'm in charge, I'll be able to push any laws I deem necessary. Or _needed._ " He made an emphasis on the last word. 

"Hmm… I see." He didn't, not really.

"And I already have one particular law in mind."

Fenris's expression clouded, no doubt he was thinking about mages.

Hawke continued speaking in a slightly more cheerful tone, "My first decision will be to allow same-sex marriage, so we'll be able to wed without any troubles! Be in honest to the Maker relationship and all that," he announced with a dreamy expression.

Fenris nearly choked to death on his wine, but when the prospect of an immediate demise was averted, he remained speechless.

Seeing his dumbfounded expression, Hawke sighed and continued his proposal. "Of course, we will have to grant you a title. Something appropriately flashy, I think..."

At last, Fenris found his voice. "You are not serious."

"'Course I am! What do you think of me? Certainly not 'mean' or 'cruel,' I hope?" Despite Hawke's attempt to mask it, worry saturated in his tone.

"No, of course not."

Hawke brightened again. "So, it's settled then?"

"…Settl..." Suppressing a cough, Fenris splashed the wine all over the white Antivan rug, which went completely unnoticed. "I… Yes?" he said at length.

"Oh, don't worry, you'll like it! Pissing off nobility is always fun! Being the hero of Kirkwall has its perks. Besides —" Hawke smirked "— think of what Anders will say!"

"The mage will say nothing. He will be too busy having a stroke," deadpanned Fenris, firelight glinting in his eyes.


	9. The Wanderers of Thedas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Zevran & Female Aeducan]

They were slowly nearing the path, which, according to the map, led straight to Haven.

 _'What a delightful irony it would be if this place actually turns out to be a hellish trap for its visitors.'_ Zevran chuckled at the thought. _'An isolated village, enclosed community, disappearing knights, eerie silence… Next we will find mutilated corpses and a bloody altar for worshiping Old Gods,'_ he mused with a dreamy smile. ' _Like in an Orlesian novel_. _I probably should write it down, add some romance and daring rescue of a devilishly handsome scholar by a deadly but modest_ —  _for a time, at least — temptress… Or will it be a gorgeous chantry lay sister? Or maybe both? Hmm…_ _The Lost Haven will do nicely.'_

Oh, and there was the village itself! Once they passed the gate (what a laughable practice — to call two opposing wooden posts _the gate_ ) and its friendly guardians, the Warden made her way to the central square.

_'Hmm… Looks like my premonitions are coming to pass. Maybe I should consider changing my occupation, after all.'_

"Strange. A perfect little village, no? Almost _too_ perfect."

The Warden turned to answer him… and promptly stumbled over a pothole. She would have collided with a vendor cart if not for Zevran's quick reaction. _'Ah, she sure has wonderful reflexes for a rogue.'_

"Careful, my dear. I might start thinking you are enjoying falling into my arms," he whispered into her cute little ear.

When the commotion was over, they finally saw what was on their way in detail. Before them was indeed the vendor cart. Above it hanged skewed wooden plate with a carelessly scribbled inscription 'Se Wanders of Tedas' made in bright red color. Taking in the sight of two forlorn thugs manning it, Zevran was almost compelled to buy something. He felt torn between pity and laughter.

A scary looking (for ordinary costumers, anyway) merchant dressed in a worn-out leather armor smiled, revealing that he lost half of his teeth somewhere, and greeted them without much enthusiasm, "Felcome to fe Fandefs of Fefas. You fould nof find befer mafical itemf. All fe fay from fe Circle of Mafi."

After a moment of shared bewildered silence, Zevran snorted. "Well… You certainly had wandered off far away from civilization, no?" 

The Warden seemed to seriously consider it before looking at the seller with some curiosity. With the tip of her dagger she poked a badly scratched piece of painted stone that laid on display and asked in her melodic voice, _"Enchantment?"_


	10. Who Let the Dogs Out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Male Hawke/Fenris, Anders; background - Dog & Isabela]  
> In-game dialogue/situation based.

"I know it isn't my place to criticize, but… Are you sure about Fenris?" asked Anders, frustrated and anxious at the same time. Blue light sparked feverishly in his eyes.  
  
Why did he choose to approach Hawke with personal matters while they were running his ASAP errand —  _and in Fenris's presence, no less! —_  was anybody's guess. The smell and the ominous sewers' lightning didn't help the mood either.  
  
Meanwhile, Anders continued, "He seems less a man to me than a wild dog."  
  
That's to say, Hawke was already tired of his constant nagging and not-so-subtle passes, so this outburst just felt like a proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. His patience snapped. He gritted his teeth, made a mental sigh, and, with a fake cheerfulness and an exaggerated confidence, leant forward.  
  
"Ah, you don't say! He is _so good_ at doggy-style!.." Hawke drawled in a stage whisper.  
  
Beside him Fenris made a strange, sort of strangled sound. Stepping closer, he outright _growled_.   
  
Obviously, his lover wasn't exactly pleased with the way this conversation was heading. To say the least. Hawke was sorely tempted to slap himself in the face. Hard. He swallowed. Yeah, he should expect a really _serious_ talk when they get back home… and maybe some time in the doghouse.  
  
In the rear, Dog, oblivious to any implications, woofed his approval while Isabela was fighting a losing battle with a sudden coughing fit.


	11. Cleaning Service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Aveline & Fenris]

They were walking through Hightown for some time and were nearing the Square when Aveline finally decided to voice her concern.   
  
"Fenris, you know I'm your friend, right?"

Briefly glancing at her, Fenris muttered cautiously, "Yes?"

Still looking slightly unsure, which presented a new, and thus disconcerting picture, she probed, "So then you won't take offence if I speak the truth?"

Fenris replied even more uncertainty, "No?"

Encouraged none the less, Aveline barrelled on, "Good, because let me tell you… Those decomposing corpses that you insist on keeping in the hallway? _Disgusting!_ It's a health hazard and a blight on the eye besides! Donnic grumbles about the smell all the time! More than that, your neighbours file complains every other week! Even Guardsmen whine about the stench after their patrols!"

Bewildered, Fenris tried to protest, "But they are useful for intimidation!" 

Aveline lifted her left eyebrow. It was her Magical Skeptical Eyebrow, no one could resist its power for long. She waited.

Not looking at her, Fenris mumbled defensively, "And I refresh them every Friday."

Sighing, she relented. "Fine. Do as you wish but know that I can smell the stink of rotting flesh from across the street." It didn't mean she gave up, it was just a temporary strategic retreat. 

"And don't think I forgot about your 'secret' weekly games. You're not a sneaky bunch!"


	12. (Un)timely Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Male Hawke, Carver, Bethany, Leandra; Aveline and Dog in the background]

"Lovely art exhibition they have going on here," muttered Hawke, looking at the Golden Slaves statues. "Makes you feel welcomed, all warm and fuzzy inside… Or is it that mouldy bread we had for our last supper? I can hardly believe it was three days ago! Seems like yesterday, don't you think?"

"Thanks so much for reminding me of what I spent all night trying to forget. Well done, brother!" groused Carver.

"Boys, please, no more fighting! We are nearly there!" chided them Leandra. 

"Sorry, Mother," they mumbled in perfect unison. 

After a long and miserable journey from the blighted soil, haggard and exhausted, they staggered through the overcrowded Gallows to the City Gate… only to be denied entrance to the City of Chains by stationed there Guardsmen.

"There is nothing I can do," said Guardsman number one, a burly fellow with crooked teeth, in a nasal voice. "The city is full!" 

"We've been letting you, Fereldans, in for months. You're too late," explained Guardsman number two. He was a little shorter and a lot slighter in built than his colleague, and, thankfully, had a somewhat pleasant baritone. Not that his teeth were any better.

"But we have relatives in the city!" protested Leandra with all the indignation of a slighted nobility, proving that no matter how far or how fast you move, you can't outrun your upbringing.

"Yeah, it's like half of Ferelden suddenly have relatives here," retorted Number One dismissively. "No can do." 

Seeing their mother upset never was among his favourite activities. Hawke stepped forward. "Just let us through, our uncle's name is Gamlen Amell, he lives in Hightown."

"I know of no one with such name," replied Number Two a touch apologetically, instantaneously lowering the chances of Hawke's blade finding a way through the breach in his armour by a considerable amount. 

Hawke continued persuading. "He will be pleased to know of our arrival and will probably reward you for bringing him such good news! Surely you can make an exemption and at least speak with him?"

"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of Antiva," snorted Number One, drawing a perfect bullseye on his back. "There is _no. More. Room!"_

At that precise moment the leader of a refugee group that were standing to their right butted in, "What?! You are considering letting them in?!" 

"Hmm… Let us in and your problem with the lack of free space in the City will be solve shortly," offered Hawke magnanimously.  

"Nobody said anything about granting entrance to anyone!" protested Number One, but his words were ignored by the outraged mob.

"We were here first!" shouted someone. 

"It's been four days since our arrival, that's not fair!" complained someone else.

"Brothers, to arms!" commanded the leader, drawing out his sword and charging straight at Hawke. Which of course was the biggest and, coincidently, the last of his mistakes.

The fight was over almost without really beginning. Soon, Hawke and his siblings found themselves in a gory circle of mutilated bodies while Aveline and Dog protectively stood before Leandra.

"How do you think they clean up the streets?" wondered Hawke. 

"I really hope not by throwing corpses into in the sea," answered Bethany, looking ill at the thought.

Guardsman number two cleared his throat. "You have my thanks."

"Now you see what I mean?" said Hawke with a sly smile.

Glancing at Hawke and his siblings, Number Two, clearly more intelligent than his sputtering companion, made the right conclusion. "Wait here, I will send somebody to fetch your uncle."


	13. A Well-placed Innuendo (makes all the difference)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [implied Male Hawke/Fenris; Anders, Isabela & Aveline]

_I wonder, what is it Aveline requires of me this time? Must be something pretty important if she resorted to sending a courier… The note said she has 'significant news,' and to visit her in the office 'as soon as possible.' Not exactly forthcoming even by her usual standards._    
  
Hawke was about to comment on the haste when the heavy double doors leading to the barracks were thrown open by the Seneschal. Only honed reflexes saved Hawke from having his nose broken.  
  
Muttering angry profanities — and that was shocking enough to render Hawke temporarily speechless — and without sparing a glance at his would-be victim, like a particularly nasty cloud seneschal Bran stormed in the general direction of the Keep's northern wing.  
  
Annoyed, Hawke shouted at his retreating back, "Delightful morning, isn't it, Seneschal?"  
  
Bran (most likely) pretended not to hear a thing.  
  
"And here I thought he was always collected and proper," muttered Hawke.  
  
"If by 'proper' you mean 'stuck-up' and by 'collected' — 'in a dire need of a good lay,' sure," snorted Isabela.  
  
Of course, Anders ignored her words. "What do you think that was about, Hawke?"  
  
Isabela didn’t give him a chance to reply. "Maybe the Seneschal is finding dealing with our Iron Lady too tiring for his delicate psyche."  
  
"Or maybe he is just not a morning person." muttered Fenris near Hawke's ear.  
  
Sometimes it felt like he was a nanny for a group of misbehaving toddlers. "Speculations aside, I have a feeling we will find out soon enough." Hawke shrugged and, rather pointedly, strolled forward.  
  
The barracks greeted them with a sight of busy activity: Sergeant Melinda was shouting orders at running to-and-fro Guardsmen, their armour clattered noisily; an errand boy with a stack of parchments in his hands so tall it nearly obscured his vision run past them and almost collided with Lieutenant Jalen, who had quite suddenly appeared right before him.  
  
Hawke would believe he had finally found a long lost home if not for the unimaginative uniform. Forgoing knocking or any other form of announcement, he strode into Aveline’s office; Isabela, Anders, and Fenris trailed after him.  
  
“Hail Captain!” declared Hawke saluting his friend.  
  
For several minutes Aveline continued writing in a big leather bound journal. Her usually immaculate table was covered in piles upon piles of scrolls, books, notes, and stray scraps of parchment, partially obscuring her from view. Only when Hawke had started to sigh too loudly to be ignored any longer did she look up… and grimaced in exasperation, obviously not amused by his antics.  
  
“Hawke.”  
  
“Reporting as ordered, my Captain! I patiently await your command!” His posture changed to a perfect parade rest.  
  
“Please, not today. I have a lot to deal with as it is.” She rubbed her temples tiredly.  
  
Instantly dropping the act, Hawke frowned. “Why the long face?”  
  
“The Viscount is worried the Qunari plan to riot, and since he knows I’m your friend, he thought it prudent to relay his wish through me.”  
  
“What can I do to help?”  
  
“I really don’t know. Dumar seems to think that you can talk them out of it.” She snorted. “I told him it wouldn’t do any good, but he persisted. Will you speak with the Arishok?”  
  
“Of course, it is no problem at all. Although I agree with you — it’s not like we are the best of pals with him.”  
  
“I’m going with you.” Fenris’s tone left no room for negotiation.  
  
“We are _all_ going to the Compound. Not you, Aveline. You’re staying here.”   
  
“But!..”  
  
“You are still on the clock.”  
  
“Fine.” She sighed. “Please, note that I’m not happy with it.”  
  
"You are not committing dereliction of duty. Not on my watch!” Hawke exclaimed mock-sternly, making Isabela giggle and Aveline’s expression soften, a smile flitted across her face. “Oh, and by the way, what's the deal with Bran? Never saw him so frustrated before.”  
  
"Don't mind the _esteemed_ Seneschal.” It was said with such vitriol, Hawke made a point of raising a brow in query.  
  
“He was here to discuss our budget for the month. Apparently, he believes replacing broken weapons to be less important than buying drake skin casings for chairs in the Viscount's office." Aveline's grimace was as sour as Orana's soup.  
  
“Pff! Politicians, what do they know!”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know, Hawke. He might be onto something. With the City Guard’ competency level, it _might_ be a more sensible investment,” with a mischievous grin pondered aloud Isabela.

Fiercely glaring at her, Aveline growled, _“Goodbye, Hawke.”_

He could have sworn he heard her teeth grinding. Only Isabela could elicit such a reaction so quickly. “Yeah, yeah, consider me already gone!” And with a wink and a bow, he towed the pouting rogue out of the room.  
  
Once they had safely escaped the chaos zone previously known as the barracks and were braving the never-ending joy of staircases that connected different parts of Kirkwall, Anders decided it’s time to make his opinion known. He stopped on the millionth to last step.  
  
"I'm a healer and, when needed, a battle-mage, but I'm no diplomat. I can't see how I could possibly be of any use in negotiations."

"Pity," deadpanned Fenris, gracefully sidestepping him. "You'd do nicely talking your opponents to death."

Hawke vividly imagined the Qunari — intimidating stoic warriors — committing mass suicide only to avoid listening to Anders' rant about mage oppression and couldn't help but snort at the picture. From the corner of his eye he saw Fenris's lips curved upward slightly.

"You know, if I understand it properly, according to the Qun everyone has their place,” mused Anders with a thoughtful frown. “For example, if you are born in a family of bakers, it is your nature to be a baker. Am I correct so far?”

“Everyone has a purpose they are best suited for, yes.” 

“Ah, but doesn’t it mean that if you are born a slave, you should stay as one? Tell me, Fenris, isn't that right?"

Fenris’s tattoos flared. "You should praise the Maker you weren't born Saarebas and hope I won't reconsider not cutting your tongue out. This idea becomes more and more tempting with each passing second."

Hawke tensed. Ready to intervene at any moment, he was listing possible options in his mind, but then his thought process was abruptly completely derailed.

"Oh, stop with the bickering, boys!" Nudging him discreetly, Isabela drawled, “Hawke needs to _discuss_ something with you, Fenris.” The way she said it implied, or rather screamed, she believed they would be doing it without the use of actual words. "Why don’t we meet in the Hanged man —” she hummed ”— say, in an hour time?” Turning to face the mage fully, she eyed him critically. ”As for you, darling, I wouldn't mind holding your" — smirking, she waggled her eyebrows suggestively — " _control rode_ while they do their talking."


	14. Friendly Gossip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Isabela/Merrill; implied Male Hawke/Anders]

Sitting on a bar stool next to her favorite elf, Isabela mused, “Hawke and Anders… Ferocity and strength, passion and intensity... Makes a girl wonder.” Biting the tip of her quill, she gleefully proclaimed, “I bet they take turns!”

Merrill blinked. The hum of the evening crowd made it difficult to hear clearly.   
  
Smirking, Isabela leaned forward and repeated her words once more, breathing them hotly into a cute pointed ear, and Merrill shivered. 

“What do you mean?” 

“What do you think, kitten?” 

A slow blush colored Merrill’s lovely face. “Ah. I don't know… Maybe we shouldn't talk about them this way?”

At times she was so adorably shy, Isabela wanted either to hug or to kiss her. Maybe both. She couldn’t decided. For now, she pouted, “Aww… Don't be like that! It's our right as their friends!” And playfully squeezed Merrill thigh. “Friends always discuss such matters!”

Merrill sighed. “Well, if you say so... I guess they do take turns." And with an innocent smile, she added, "It is only _just_ , isn't it?”


	15. Friend Fiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric's next book for the Swords and Shields series is based on the Inquisitor and her LI.  
> [Lavellan/Solas]

_“Please, don’t stop,” moaned Nealla, winding her shapely legs around Losa’s trim waist and thus preventing his possible retreat, not that he had any desire to be anywhere else at the moment. “I want to feel you in me. Now!” she said in a hoarse whisper. Her ample breasts heaved with each breath she took._

_“Don’t play with me, ma vhenan,” growled Losa against her neck, desperate for an answer. “Tell me now if this is truly what you want. I won’t be able to stop once we get started in earnest.”_

_“Yes! Yes, you silly man,” she said._

_It had taken them so long to get here, all those long talks of their shared heritage, discussions of magic and dreams. She had lost count of innuendos and flirting remarks, and still he wasn’t make a move. Waiting became maddening, so with a lot of courage — and a bit of hard liquor — she made the last step of the mating dance herself. And it paid off: in reply to at her provocation, Losa pinned her to a bookshelf, shaking with arousal. Things finally started getting physical._

_“Take me like no one before you!” she pleaded in encouragement. “I want to feel it for days…”_

_“Ma veraisa—”_

“Did you rope Merrill into this as well?”

“I can neither confirm, nor deny her involvement. A good writer never reveals his sources.”

“Varric, how could you! Ahem. _‘—ma vhenan’ara,’ said Losa, trailing butterfly kisses along her collarbone, ‘my desire for your body is no less great than my indomitable yearning for your soul—’”_

Hawke snorted and looked up from the page he was reading. The ink hadn’t dried yet, and he held the parchment with сare, not wanting to smudge it.  _“Indomitable,_ Varric? _Really?”_

Quill stilled, Varric leaned back in his chair and glanced at him, a smirk hiding in the corners of his mouth. “What can I say, I try to keep my characters as close to original as possible.”

“Somehow I doubt Solas would ever say indomitable while screwing the Inquisitor.”

Varric grimaced. “Don’t be crass, Hawke. Besides, you don’t know Chuckles as well as I do. Couple of days ago, he actually shouted, _‘Elven glory.’”_ *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma vhenan’ara - my heart’s desire;  
> Veraisa - ‘One who pulls at sexual desire,’ similar to the English Vixen, and means someone who intentionally tried to sexually arouse others in a flirtatious manner, either playfully, or in an attempt to get something. [FenxShiral]
> 
> *refers to [this fic](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/10859.html?thread=45896043#t45896043), which in turn refers to [this dialogue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eKbzdLuT3Tw&list=PLbTubF7bJ8qcGVefFXNbktaqw9mL5yqOa&index=56) with Sera.


	16. The Moment of Triumph

Exhausted and bloody, Hawke stood next to the body of his fallen enemy. All around — humans, elves, even a couple of dwarves, and of course qunari — were gaping in shocked silence. Although with qunari it wasn’t so obvious. No one, it seemed, had expected to witness the formidable warrior decapitated in one fell swoop.

Taking a few steps to the right, Hawke bent down, picked up the head by the giant horn, and raised it high, keeping it, however, away from himself to avoid getting even more blood on his person. Returning to the body, he put his foot on it and adjusted his stance to look majestic, befitting the heroes of old.

Meredith burst through the doors, Orsino and an entourage of Templars hot on her heels, just in time to hear Hawke say,

“The Arishok is defeated!" His voice sounded loud and clear in the still hall. He paused for dramatic effect. "Come, citizens of Kirkwall! _Felicitate me!"_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by [Foodmoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Foodmoon/).


End file.
